His own person

Like all parents, I love my children. And like all parents, I love them a little bit extra when they’re sleeping. Besides the obvious benefits of being still and sweet-looking, their sleeping gives me the opportunity to actually think about them rather than just react to them. When I watch my kids sleep I wander through the halls of my memories of them, finding and examining little moments that only some subconscious part of my mind noticed, but set aside for later.

Today we left for our Big Trip North. Right now we’re in the middle of Arkansas. Once the boys drifted off, I spent a long time looking at Charlie’s face. The earnestness of his expression, the serious way he holds his jaw, his hands folded neatly in his lap. He has become such a good boy.

As I started sifting through my memories of him, turning them in my hands, savoring the luxurious details of each one, my mind paused on a memory of the trip we took to Hill Country last month. Charlie had been so certain he was going to go swimming, to show us how Grandpa taught him to cross the pool by himself. We tried to prepare him for the chance it wouldn’t happen. We explained that the pool isn’t heated and Hill Country is chilly in October. Charlie was patient and polite, but we could tell our warnings hadn’t shaken his determination. When we finally got to the pool the water was so cold that my foot ached from just one tentative plunge. Again, I tried to convince Charlie to abandon his plan, to come back and watch a movie with me. He said he wanted to swim. I left him at the edge of the pool and sat with Bill and Jimmy for a while. When I looked back at Charlie, I could see him by the edge of the water, sometimes dipping a foot in, sometimes only staring into it, but always with an expression of determination. Suddenly, he was in the water, teeth chattering, doggie-paddling with all his might. “I did it! I did it! I’m swimming!” he called. We couldn’t believe it. How was the kid not an ice cube? And he was right—he can swim! He stayed in for about 15 minutes and when he finally climbed out he was freezing cold, but shaking, also, with excited pride.

Now, as I watch him sleep in the back seat, I’m overcome with pride, too. I realize he faced a difficult decision by himself, knowing that he alone would endure the consequences: temporary discomfort or a big disappointment. And although I walked away from the discomfort, Charlie went his own way, making a choice that wasn’t easy, but that led to a fantastic accomplishment. He’s his own person. And he’s brave.

It took this quiet moment for me to remember all that.